


Stranded

by Chrysochloridae



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: (but ultimately things are put back on track), Allergies, Baking, Christmas Lights, Christmas Tree, Cookies, Drawing, Flowers, Forehead Kisses, Grocery Shopping, Hot Chocolate, Hypothermia, Kissing, Laboratories, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Portraits, Puns & Word Play, Serial: s055 Terror of the Autons, Serial: s056 The Mind of Evil, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Snow, Soft Master (Doctor Who), The TARDIS Ships It (Doctor Who), some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysochloridae/pseuds/Chrysochloridae
Summary: During the Auton invasion, the conversation that takes place between the Doctor and the Master in the lab is never interrupted. In a fit of rage, the Master accidentally destroys his ship’s dematerialization circuit. Like the Doctor, he’s stranded on Earth. Unlike the Doctor, he knows the dematerialization codes and can repair TARDIS components. While plotting his escape, the Master is whisked away on Earthly adventures with the Doctor.
Relationships: Third Doctor & The Master (Delgado), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. A Tale of Two Circuits

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I decided to try to weave a few fics featuring the Third Doctor and the Master into a feasible plot. If there is anything I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic, please let me know!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate ending to the fourth episode of Terror of the Autons: While the Autons are tormenting Earth, the Master meets the Doctor in his lab. Instead of being interrupted, they have ample time to hash things out. The Doctor tries to deter the Master from killing him by showing him a dematerialization circuit and claiming it belongs to the Master's TARDIS, but the Master calls his bluff.

The Doctor didn’t find the scuff of the Master’s shoes on the spiral staircase particularly unexpected, nor his level, “Good afternoon, Doctor. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” The Doctor turned from the lab table and settled back against it in a fluid motion that he hoped conveyed believable nonchalance. “No, no, indeed not,” he said as his eyes flicked over the Master, taking stock of the Tissue Compression Eliminator clutched in his hand — trained on him, naturally — and his immaculate appearance. They fell into a familiar rhythm, taking verbal stabs at one another while parrying the blows directed at themselves. The Master, of course, was eager to remind the Doctor of the extent of his intellectual prowess and the ease with which he could harm him with his sleek weapon. Eventually, when it was the Doctor’s turn to strike, he forced apathy into his voice and said, “You won’t kill me.”

“That is your last mistake.” The Master’s features twisted into a heated glare.

“If you fire that thing, you will never be able to leave this planet,” the Doctor continued. The Master’s nostrils flared, but he appeared otherwise unfazed.

“You’re bluffing on an empty hand, Doctor.”

“I’m not bluffing and my hand, as you can see, is not empty.” The Master’s gaze fell to where the Doctor clutched a dematerialization circuit in his fist. He unfurled his fingers, thankful that they didn’t tremble as he did so, revealing the circuit to the Master. “If you kill me, you will destroy the dematerialization circuit from your own TARDIS. You recognize it, I feel sure.” The Doctor’s hearts flung themselves against his rib cage, leaving him breathless. The Master's eyes widened as he peered at the circuit. The Doctor silently hoped he wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t the one he nabbed from the horse box, but his own.

"Where did you get that?" the Master breathed.

"The circus," the Doctor replied remarkably evenly.

The Master recomposed himself and sniffed. “Ah, but you see, I am not as careless as I believe you’re hoping I will be. I’m afraid I’ll have to examine that circuit more thoroughly in order to be absolutely certain that it is indeed mine. After all, your TARDIS is right here; it would be easy to use your own circuit as bait, wouldn’t it?” The Master’s hand dropped from where he’d flapped it at the Police Box in the corner of the lab. The Doctor’s blood ran ice cold — the Master had called his bluff in its entirety. He felt sure that, should the Master take a closer look at the circuit, he’d discover it wasn’t his. Though the Doctor himself hadn’t been able to tell the two circuits in his possession apart at first glance, perhaps the Time Lords’ meddling with his mind had deprived him of a species-wide analytical skill he somehow hadn’t previously noticed.

Nevertheless, hesitation would only arouse the Master’s suspicions further. The Doctor pursed his lips, lifted the circuit in the air, and deposited it on the lab table in the Master’s view. The Master mimicked his movements with his TCE before they took slow steps toward, then past, each other. The Doctor glanced down at the Master’s weapon and suppressed a shudder. The Master, meanwhile, plucked the dematerialization circuit off the lab table with characteristic gusto and twirled it around in front of his nose, inspecting it from every possible angle.

When he lifted his eyes from the circuit, the Doctor could feel the fury blazing in them from across the room. “Do you think me a fool, Doctor?” The Doctor was saved from having to respond with his parched mouth by the Master brandishing the circuit at him and declaring, “What a primitive decoy!" He chuckled maniacally. "Still, this must have taken you hours to make, so I suppose I ought to give you kudos for your artistry.” He slammed it roughly back down on the lab table and lunged for his TCE. The Doctor, taken aback by the realization that the Master hadn’t identified the circuit for what it truly was, only just managed to recover and knock the weapon behind him.

The Master sneered at the Doctor as the TCE skittered across the floor, far out of his reach. “Why, you . . .” he growled, putting up his fists, but the remainder of his insult was drowned out by the Doctor’s shout. In a blur of black velvet and white frills, the Doctor knocked the Master's fists out of the way and stunned him with an expertly placed jab of his fingers near the top of his sternum. The Master keeled over. The Doctor stepped over his unconscious body and seized his arms to drag him into his TARDIS, where he could find an adequate length of rope to bind the Master with and ensure that wouldn't be able to wreak havoc on UNIT HQ while the Doctor deterred the Nestene Consciousness.  
__________

When the TARDIS doors unlocked and glided open, the Master scrambled to his feet. The Doctor strode in, tucking the key to the ship into his coat pocket. The doors closed in his wake, leaving the Master no opportunity to escape. The Doctor paused to give the Master a once-over. He glanced at the pile of rope — the Master’s former restraints — in the corner, then clicked his tongue and announced, “Well, it’s all been cleaned up quite nicely. I see you’ve managed to wriggle free.”

The Master scoffed. “Your knot-tying skills are atrocious, Doctor. It was hardly a feat to escape.”

“Yes, well, I was in rather a hurry to halt a foolish attempt to subdue Earth when I tied those knots.” The Doctor smirked when the Master’s nostrils flared.

“I take it you stopped them, then?”

“The Nestenes? Yes. I reversed the radio signal at Beacon Hill.”

“How clever. Not, of course, as ingenious as my plan.”

“Ingenious? Hardly,” the Doctor smirked and stepped toward the ship’s console. “It isn’t advisable to — what in Rassilon’s name is that?” He halted abruptly and gestured at a tangled mass of wires and shattered circuit boards on the floor behind the Master.

The Master turned with feigned curiosity to look at what he was indicating, then leered at the Doctor. “Oh! That, my dear Doctor, is the result of a very terrible mistake,” he explained with a chuckle. “Fortunately for me, you carelessly left your dematerialization circuit on top of that column” — he gestured toward the console before clasping his hands in front of him and continuing — “but unfortunately for you, I was so irked by your petulant prank earlier that I decided to destroy it. Now, should the Time Lords lift your sentence, you won’t be able to travel anywhere without repairing your circuit. I doubt you’ll be able to properly reconstruct it with the pitiful technology of the human race.”

The Doctor gaped. The Master was tempted to rub the damage in further, but the Doctor recovered himself and said quietly, “My dear fellow, that circuit wasn’t mine.”

The Master's mouth opened and closed before he bit out, “Wasn’t yours? I’ve had enough of your infernal cheek, Doctor.”

“No, I . . .” the Doctor reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I slipped into your TARDIS and snatched your dematerialization circuit in the hope that it would make my TARDIS functional. It wasn’t compatible when I inserted it, but I must have left it here after my tests. I bluffed you with my own circuit to prevent you from hurting anyone and to ensure that you wouldn’t be able to make a convenient getaway.”

The Master’s brow furrowed as he gazed at the circuit remnants on the floor. “You mean to say that . . . that this circuit is mine?” His voice petered out. He cleared his throat to declare, “But that’s impossible! The model of circuit you showed me was far too . . . oh, I see. Your TARDIS is a much less sophisticated model than mine.”

“Your self-absorption never fails to astonish me.”

“Then that really is . . .” the Master continued to stare down at the crushed circuit.

“Yours, I’m afraid so. And since you’ve stranded yourself on this planet after attempting to invade it, you’ll undoubtedly be considered a prisoner of UNIT.” The Master turned away and crouched by his ruined circuit, caressing its fragments with shaking fingers. The Doctor could hear his labored breaths. He pursed his lips and added, “That is, if they catch you.”

The Master's shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look up. “You would help me escape, Doctor?”

“I can’t do that, but I can ensure that you have facilities to repair both circuits and someone with a formidable intellect to keep you company during your stay on Earth.” The Doctor grinned when his old friend perked up a bit. The Master stood to face the Doctor and asked, “What exactly are you proposing?”

“My dear chap, it’s hardly a mystery. I have influence in UNIT; I’ll convince them to let you stay with me. As my prisoner, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Take care!


	2. The Master's Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master intends to secure his freedom as quickly as possible.

When the Doctor unlocked the TARDIS a few hours later, the Master had toed the pieces of his dematerialization circuit into a neat pile and was sulking around the console room. He raised his head as the Doctor entered, affixing him with a questioning gaze. The Doctor flicked a few switches on the console to keep the doors open and gestured for the Master to follow him down a pristine corridor into the depths of the ship. “The Brigadier’s quite a stubborn fellow, but he ultimately conceded that my proposal was the best course of action,” he explained as they wound their way through labyrinthine halls. The Master trailed him soundlessly. “Especially once I reminded him of your intransigent opposition to interaction with — what’s the phrase you use? — insolent primitives. Here we are."

The Doctor threw open a door and ushered the Master inside. With a flick of his wrist, the room was bathed in a warm glow emanating from elegant wall-mounted lamps. The Master wandered about the room, inspecting the knick-knacks covering the furniture and the large fireplace opposite the luxurious bed. “I rather think this bedroom caters to your unquenchable thirst for self-indulgence. You won’t work in the TARDIS, of course. All of my equipment is assembled in the lab outside.”

The Master followed the Doctor into the lab to assess his “equipment” before the sky darkened beyond the window. The Doctor then showed him back into the TARDIS and gave him a quick meal — accompanied by an extravagant demonstration of his food machine, to the Master's annoyance — before sending the Master to his bedroom alone and cheerily encouraging him to rest up for the day ahead. The Master grumbled a terse reply and headed to bed, ignoring the endless opportunities available for him to antagonize his nemesis in the interest of preserving what little chance he had left to seize his freedom timely. He smirked to himself as he slipped into a pair of soft pajamas and climbed into bed. Oh, yes. He’d endure the Doctor’s shenanigans until he could secure his liberty. He hadn't wasted any time while the Doctor towed him around; he'd already managed to devise a flawless escape plan.

__________

The Master’s plan was simple yet efficient. He mulled over it as he drifted off, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the Doctor’s TARDIS. Within a few weeks, he was sure, he’d be able to secure his freedom. Of course, the speed of his progress depended on the unfortunate technology of humankind — should any of the components of either dematerialization circuit be damaged beyond repair, the Master doubted they could be replaced with anything found on Earth. Nevertheless, fixing those circuits was his only hope of fleeing that dratted planet — and he couldn’t very well use his TCE again, since the Doctor would undoubtedly confiscate it — so he had resolved to apply himself fully to the task.

The Master decided to cooperate with the Doctor, at least on the surface. The dematerialization circuit for his TARDIS was more intact than the Master’s, so in theory, fixing it wouldn’t be terribly difficult. The Master could stall for time once it was complete by pretending not to have finished his work on it — then, once the Doctor was out of sight, he could pop it into the console of his TARDIS and escape.

Of course, life is rarely so straightforward. The Master therefore devised a second prong for his plan, which involved fixing the dematerialization circuit for his own TARDIS simultaneously. The assistance he would lend the Doctor could be used as leverage; no other Time Lord would be willing to help him repair his TARDIS during his exile, so if the Doctor suddenly changed his mind about allowing the Master to fix his own circuit, he couldn’t reasonably throw the Master to the curb. Additionally, the Master figured it would be wise to take advantage of the Doctor’s scientific facilities while he could, which he reckoned he'd only be able to do while pretending to be fully cooperative. In the end, should stealing the Doctor’s TARDIS be ineffective, the Master could flee the planet in his own ship using his newly reconstructed circuit.

The Master grinned and burrowed further under the blankets. He was still smirking when sleep finally overtook him.


	3. Cheers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo returns from the sick leave she was granted after being hypnotized by the Master at the plastics factory. The Doctor sends her to help clean up the remnants of the failed invasion. Meanwhile, the Master gets off to a rough start fixing the Doctor's dematerialization circuit. However, the Doctor brightens his day when he helps him discover that a sweet Earth drink isn't as revolting as he anticipated it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: food, drinks (non-alcoholic).
> 
> Hello! This chapter contains descriptions of the preparation and consumption of hot cocoa. Please take care of yourselves and let me know if there is anything I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic!

“What are you holding, Doctor?” The Master gazed intently at the box in the Doctor’s hands over the contraption supporting the less sophisticated (yet decidedly more intact) of the two dematerialization circuits. He’d been toiling at the lab table since the wee hours of the morning; he didn’t want to waste any time on the necessary repairs, and neither did the Doctor, if his eagerness to allow the Master to start was any indication.

“Oh, this?” The Doctor paused on his way to the Police Box and waved the package in the air. “It’s a box of custard creams. Delightful treats, these. I always like to have some on hand,” he practically sang as he vanished into his TARDIS. With a dramatic sigh and a few grunts that sounded remarkably like “human food, how revolting,” the Master returned his attention to the circuit. He glowered at it, wondering vaguely if hypnosis was effective on inanimate objects.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the rapid clicks of someone’s heels in the hallway. He glanced up just as Jo Grant burst into the room, practically bubbling over with excited energy. “Oh, Doctor, it’s so nice to be back! That man at the plastics factory was simply horrible, but I'm happy to report that I'm much better now, and I'm here all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. What can —” she froze when her eyes finally alighted on the Master, who put on his best welcoming smile.

“Back from your sick leave, Miss Grant? I’m delighted to hear you’re feeling better.”

“No thanks to you,” Jo spat, backing slowly toward the door.

“Oh, hello, Jo.” The Doctor emerged from the depths of his TARDIS and leaned against the doorframe casually.

“Doctor! What’s he doing here?” Jo gasped, pointing at the Master.

“How very nice to see you, too, Miss Grant,” the Master hissed, folding his arms across his chest. The Doctor clicked his tongue and ran a hand across the back of his neck.

“The Master managed to trap himself here by destroying the dematerialization circuit from his TARDIS,” he explained, tucking his hands in his pockets. The Master rolled his eyes. “Because I happen to be the only other Time Lord currently on this planet as well as an affiliate of the international organization responsible for addressing extraterrestrial menaces, I am supervising him.”

“Oh, I see.” Jo’s eyes flicked between the two Time Lords. “But why would he want to des —”

The Master huffed. “Might I remind you, Miss Grant, that even among members of your uncivilized species it is considered rude to pry into matters that do not concern you?”

Jo flushed under his fiery gaze and stammered, “Right, sorry.”

“Don’t mind him,” the Doctor scoffed, straightening up and stepping out of his TARDIS. “He’s very insistent on crying over spilled milk.”

The Master raised his eyebrows. “An Earth expression? How endearing.”

The Doctor ignored him and took Jo’s hands in his, turning so that the Master couldn’t easily overhear them. “Are you alright, Jo?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine, thanks. Much better after that break.” Jo smiled.

“Good.”

“But, Doctor — what should I do now that you’ve got . . .” she trailed off and glanced around the Doctor at the Master, who at that moment managed to touch two very incompatible circuit components together. He coughed and spluttered after the resulting minor explosion and, still waving away a plume of smoke, peered around as if to make sure that no one had seen his blunder. Jo turned back to the Doctor before she could become the target of his animosity.

“Him? Yes, I see your point.” The Doctor released Jo’s hands and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I can't imagine you'd like to stay with him after his hypnotism made you so ill."

Jo shook her head. "Not really."

"Well, Jo, I’m sure the personnel in charge of dismantling the daffodils and the Auton parts have quite a job ahead of them. Perhaps you could give them a hand to make certain that we won’t face any secondary invasions, hm?”

Jo grinned and nodded. “Okay.”

The Doctor returned her smile as she headed for the door. “Good girl. Oh, and Jo?”

Jo turned back. “Yes?”

“The dismantling process may take a few days. Don’t you worry about us here. Take care of yourself.”

“Alright, Doctor. Good luck.” With another smile and nod, Jo was gone.

The Master sighed heavily. “You really ought to teach your companions manners, Doctor. She didn’t bother to say goodbye to me.”  
__________

The Master had been tinkering with the Doctor’s infernal circuit for hours, fueled by blocks of sustenance from the food machine that the Doctor brought to him every so often. He didn’t bother to ask why the Doctor didn’t try to serve him Earth food; he feared that if he opened his mouth for too long, he'd get an earful about the mess his invasion plans made or his luck for being permitted to stay with a fellow Time Lord instead of being thrown in a drab cell.

When the daylight began to fade, the Doctor flicked on the lab's overhead lights. The Master’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips as he carefully maneuvered a wire into its proper place just . . . there . . . “How’s it coming along, old chap?”

The wire slipped. A shower of sparks erupted from the circuit. With a yelp, the Master leapt to his feet and scrambled backward, knocking the stool he’d been perched on to the ground. As the sparks dwindled and finally stopped spewing everywhere, he balled his hands into fists, trembling with frustration. The Doctor, leaning casually against the other side of the lab table, looked mildly surprised and — the Master realized with a jolt of anger — greatly amused. “Don’t look so smug, Doctor,” he grumbled, righting the stool.

“Yes, well. I think it’s time we called it a night.”

The Master straightened up. His eyes flashed. “We? I don't recall your contributions to the progress on your circuit.”

The hint of a smirk that had donned the Doctor’s face vanished. The Master felt a flicker of triumph warm his hearts. He harrumphed and crossed his arms.

A knock at the door disrupted the Time Lords’ standoff. “Come in,” the Doctor called. A UNIT officer turned the knob and stepped inside, swiftly closing the door behind him. “Ah, Captain Yates, just the man I wanted to see!” The Doctor stood to greet him.

“You called for me, sir?” Yates asked, glancing at the Master over the Doctor’s shoulder and receiving an icy stare in response.

“Yes, I hope you can spare a few minutes.”

“Of course, sir.”

The Doctor beamed. “Wonderful. I’d like you to meet my friend. He calls himself the Master.” He gestured to the Master across the room. Yates nodded politely.

“How do you do, sir?” he asked.

The Master rounded the lab table with a low chuckle. “Ah, this one has manners,” he leered. The Doctor ushered Yates to the far end of the table, where various pieces of equipment were laid out.

“You see, Captain, it being the Master’s first full day at UNIT HQ, I thought perhaps a display of hospitality would be appreciated.” With a pointed glance at the Master, the Doctor continued, “One that soothes boiling tempers especially so. I heard you make excellent cocoa.”

Yates gave a small shrug. “I do my best, sir. Would you gentlemen like some?”

“Please." The Doctor grinned. "And would you mind terribly showing us how you make it? I'm sure you can find everything you need here."

Yates looked puzzled. The Doctor flapped a hand at him. “I’m giving you permission to use my laboratory facilities as a kitchen just this once, mind.” When Yates’ eyes flicked to the Master, the Doctor added lowly, “He may be a prisoner, but a simple nicety won’t hurt, I’m sure.”

Yates nodded and excused himself to fetch the ingredients. Once the lab door shut behind him, the Master scoffed. “Trying to impress me with ape cuisine, Doctor?”

“My dear fellow, there are quite a few notable distinctions between humans and apes,” the Doctor replied evenly.

With a huff, the Master grumbled, “Potayto, potahto.” That earned him a raised eyebrow from the Doctor.

“An Earth reference, Master?” The Master blanched. “Never you mind. Let’s call the whole thing off, hm?” The Doctor’s smile wasn’t returned.

Yates returned to the lab and set a few boxes and bottles on the table. The Doctor helped him adjust a ring stand above a Bunsen burner. Yates set a piece of wire gauze on the ring, centered a beaker full of water on it, turned on the gas, and lit the burner. The Master watched with passing interest as Yates demonstrated the proper ratio of ingredients to measure out into — the captain paused. “I’m afraid I only have these old mugs from the canteen. Would you prefer to use your own, Doctor?”

“These will do just fine, thank you.” The Doctor began to measure the ingredients into the mug in front of him and gestured for the Master to prepare his. The Master sniffed but begrudgingly tapped out a few spoonfuls of cocoa powder into his cup and, without glancing up, reached for the sugar at the same time that the Doctor was retracting his hand from having set it down. Their fingers brushed. The Master’s head snapped upward in surprise, but the Doctor clearly hadn’t thought anything of it — he nonchalantly stirred the substances in the bottom of his mug with a stirring rod before handing the rod to the Master so he could do the same. The Master made sure to pluck it very carefully from the Doctor’s fingers so they wouldn’t make contact again. As far as he was concerned, cooperating with the Doctor didn't involve getting touchy-feely with him.

The Doctor donned a pair of thick rubber gloves. As per Yates’ instructions, when the water in the beaker began to boil, he removed it and filled each of their mugs to the brim. Yates borrowed the stirring rod to mix his and the Doctor’s cocoa, but the Master snatched it from him before he could touch his drink. He stirred it intently, watching the water transform from a cloudy mess into a thick, opaque liquid. He stared at it as it swirled around in his mug, ignoring Yates’ polite refusal of the Doctor’s invitation to stay with them. Yates gathered the ingredients and his mug of cocoa in his arms and slipped out of the lab.

“Well,” the Doctor said once they were alone, “Cheers, old chap.” He took a sip of his drink, smacked his lips, and peered down at it. “That’s quite nice.” He sipped it again. The Master prodded at the bubbles on the top of his cocoa with the stirring rod, making small waves in his cup. “Come now, don’t play with your food,” the Doctor scolded, nearly half finished with his drink.

The Master huffed, set the stirring rod down, and lifted his cocoa to his lips. He paused, cautiously sniffing the sweet steam curling up from its surface. Though he found the alien scent surprisingly pleasing, he wrinkled his nose to keep up appearances. He tilted the mug back, prepared to down its contents all in one go — that would show the Doctor that he wasn’t fooling around. As soon as he got a mouthful of cocoa, though, he screeched and spluttered, slamming the mug back on the table and frantically swallowing what had passed his lips, grimacing as it scalded his throat. The Doctor sprang to his feet and thrust a beaker full of cool water into his hands, which he guzzled greedily.

As soon as the Master set the empty beaker back on the table, the Doctor gently grasped his chin and dabbed the cocoa at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief. The Master reached up to pry the handkerchief out of his fingers and scrubbed at his tender lips himself. “I’m not a child, Doctor!”

“Yes, well, that was a very childish thing to do.” The Doctor settled back on his lab stool and the Master slowly perched himself on the chair next to him, running his fingers over the spot where the Doctor had touched him so tenderly. He suppressed the twinge of regret that had surfaced after he had pushed the Doctor away so abruptly, instead focusing on sucking air through his lips to soothe his tingling mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Doctor sip more cocoa. He gritted his teeth, folded the handkerchief on the table, and mimicked the Doctor’s movements. His tongue protested when he took a drink, but he did his best to taste the cocoa before swallowing. The Master’s eyes fell shut as he lifted the mug to his lips once, twice, thrice . . .

“It’s rather good when it’s savored, hm? Not unbearably hot, either, when you don’t pour it down your throat in large quantities.” The Doctor smirked when the Master’s eyes shot open.

“Only humans could concoct a drink that scalds your innards and enjoy it,” the Master sneered.

“Ah, but you’ve nearly finished yours. Am I to take that to indicate your enjoyment?”

The Master set his mug down and pushed it away. “Of course not. I was simply humoring you. Are you satisfied with my cooperation?”

“There’s no shame in enjoying something that humans have made. They can be delightfully inventive.” The Doctor tipped the last of his cocoa into his mouth and set his empty mug on the table with a sigh. “You know, I got engaged over cocoa once, many years ago.”

“Oh?” The Master quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes, it’s quite an amusing story. At the time, I was traveling with Susan and a couple of schoolteachers we picked up in London in 1963 . . .” As the Doctor talked, the Master’s eyes flicked towards his half-finished cup of cocoa where it had come to rest after he'd shoved it across the table. He kept a careful eye on the Doctor’s wild hand gestures and cocked his ear for any intonations that suggested some sort of response was expected from him. Slowly, the Master inched his fingers across the table and began tugging his mug closer to him.

“. . . quite a lovely era, don’t you think?”

The Master jumped, releasing the cocoa and crossing his arms on the table in what he hoped appeared to be a casual position. “Hm? Oh, yes, of course.”

“Yes, it’s one of my favorites. We happened to land there by chance in the midst of an extravagant tomb . . .”

The Master extended his arm again and pulled the mug closer, closer . . . He winced when the ceramic shrieked against the tabletop, but the Doctor continued talking. The Master released a breath he’d unconsciously sucked in and shimmied the cup to the edge of the table.

Finally, the Master had it. He closed his eyes in bliss when the lukewarm chocolate flowed across his taste buds. The Doctor’s voice faded completely from his awareness as he gulped his drink. He was a bit startled when he reached the bottom of the mug; he’d intended to savor the cocoa longer. With an inward shrug, he quietly lowered it to the table and returned his attention to the Doctor, who was leaning on his elbow in silence, staring straight at him. The Master flushed.

“Stubborn old goat,” the Doctor chided. “You liked it after all.”

“I — you — your story was excessively dull, Doctor. I had to amuse myself with something,” the Master retorted.

“Ah, I see,” the Doctor grinned, earning himself an annoyed huff from the Master. “Well then, old chap, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.” He rose from the table and crossed to the door.

“At this hour? I thought you said it was about time that 'we' called it a night.”

The Doctor checked his watch. “The Brigadier will be here for at least another hour, and I’m afraid I must deliver a vital report. Supervising you isn't all fun and games, you see. I'm glad you enjoyed your cocoa.” With a wink, he shut the door behind him.

The Master sighed and smoothed his hair back, deep in thought. His mind whizzed through all of the things he could have done to save face in front of the Doctor, but he resigned himself to what couldn't be changed. Luckily, he wouldn't be staying with the Doctor for terribly long, so his stern facade didn't face any substantial threats.

He sighed again and swept his eyes across the lab. When they landed on a pad of paper and a pencil, he paused. After a moment of thought, he tore off the top page of the notepad and hastily began scribbling: “2 teaspoons cocoa powder, 2 tablespoons sugar . . .” When he finished writing, the Master tucked the recipe into the inside pocket of his jacket. Once he secured his freedom, he could burn it in a colorful fire to celebrate his escape from Earth. Then again, he mused, it might make a heartswarming souvenir. With one final glance around the room, he slipped into the TARDIS for the night.


	4. Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While waiting for a critical circuit component to arrive, the Master finds himself temporarily unoccupied. He decides to show the Doctor that he is, as a matter of fact, interested in and somewhat knowledgeable about Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: food.
> 
> Hello! This chapter contains descriptions of the preparation and consumption of Danish butter cookies/biscuits. Please take care of yourselves and let me know if there is anything I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic!

“Doctor?” the Master called late the next morning. He was intently examining a slender piece of metal.

“Yes?” The Doctor stepped out of his TARDIS and strode smartly over to the lab table. His shoes scuffed the ground as he bent to peer at the object of the Master’s attention. The Master plucked the metal off the table and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Your palladium rod has a monoxide coating. Fixing it by hand will incur serious risk of damaging it irreparably.”

“You require a new one?”

“Two.”

“Two?”

“For insurance. You don’t want to obtain only one and discover that it’s faulty, do you?”

The Doctor scratched at his chin. “There’s no need to hide your efforts to repair your own circuit from me. I think I've made it perfectly clear that I am not averse to them.” He turned to pace around the lab.

Color rose in the Master’s cheeks, but before he could spew a scathing response, the Doctor mused, “UNIT doesn’t keep palladium on hand, but I’m sure I could convince the Brigadier to order some for you.”

The Master’s eyes widened. “Palladium can be mined on this primitive planet?”

“In certain areas. Really, it’s sometimes difficult to tell if your near-comic conceit is a charade,” the Doctor huffed.

The Master folded his arms across his chest. He decided to ignore the Doctor’s jabs. “How long will it be until it arrives?”

“Oh, anywhere from three days to a week, I should expect. It has to be imported, you see, unless the British government happens to keep a stock of it handy for questing Time Lords.” The Doctor’s grin vanished when the Master didn’t return it.

“I can’t continue my repairs until I have those palladium rods,” he declared, eyes boring into the Doctor.

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to take a break, then. I must say, that provides you with quite an excellent opportunity to —”

“If you are about to insinuate that I ought to frolic with _Homo sapiens_ , you can save your breath, Doctor.”

“Perhaps I ought to save it more often. You seem to be very adamant about denouncing humanity and sulking like a petulant child in the corner of this lab as long as you’re here.”

The Master’s nostrils flared and his brows furrowed. “I don’t recall you ever being eager to romp around with humans for the rest of your lives, Doctor.” He smirked when his reminder of the Doctor’s exile seemed to cow his adversary. The Doctor mumbled something about the Brigadier wanting to discuss an alleged UFO sighting with him and slipped out of the lab, pulling the door shut more forcibly than usual.

The Master chuckled to himself and pushed around a few of the tools laid out before him on the lab table. His joy quickly faded, however, when he realized he had nothing to occupy him until he obtained the palladium rods he needed. He slipped off the lab stool and ventured into the Doctor’s TARDIS. He was of a mind to prove the Doctor wrong, as he always was, but at this moment his determination burned brighter than it had in centuries. Though his present endeavor involved the unsavory task of displaying an interest in — or at the very least some degree of specialized knowledge of — Earth and its inhabitants, the Master never ignored affronts to his dignity, especially when they emanated from his worst enemy.

__________

“Come on, you old antique!” The Master thumped the food machine with his fist. “Give me something from this planet!” He let out a cry of frustration and paced around the contraption. The Doctor’s TARDIS was eerily silent; the Master could have sworn she was in cahoots with the uncooperative food machine. He glowered at the ceiling before turning on his heel, clutching the sides of the machine, and boring into it with an intense stare. He spoke slowly and deliberately: “You will give me . . .” The machine beeped, booped, and spit out a nondescript bar.

With a self-satisfied grin, the Master snatched up the bar and peeled its wrapping back. He eyed it before cautiously nibbling a corner. “Hmph,” he said, taking a slightly larger bite. “What is this?” The machine did nothing. The Master began to stare at it intently once more, and a holographic image abruptly appeared in front of his eyes. Words in a small, precise font began to float by. The Master’s eyes flicked over them as he pushed the rest of the bar into his mouth.

The image disappeared when the text concluded. With a glance at the door of the kitchen to ensure the Doctor hadn’t returned from his meeting with the Brigadier, the Master leaned close to the machine, bracing himself on its console, and murmured, “Danish biscuits?” The machine replied with a soft _bloop_. The Master stood back and ran a gloved hand over the back of his neck in thought, then froze and dusted his hand off on his jacket when he realized that he’d mimicked one of the Doctor’s habits.

“More information,” the Master commanded. The machine flashed a red light at him. He balled his hands into fists and stared it down. “You will give me more information.” After a terse silence, he growled in frustration and tacked a saucy “please” onto the end of his request. With a _ding_ , the machine started pushing out a piece of paper. The Master extended his arm to retrieve it, but when it touched his hand, the machine retracted it. “Of all the confounded . . . !” The machine shot the paper out so fast it fluttered to the ground before the Master could snatch it.

The Master grumbled as he bent to retrieve the paper. He skimmed through the text printed on it: cultural information and a very precise recipe (in Earth measurements, unfortunately, though Captain Yates had introduced him to the majority that were included). When he finished reading, he peered up at the cupboards lining the wall above and below a very Earth-style counter and sink.

The Master set the recipe on the counter and began rifling through the cabinets, all the while murmuring the names of the ingredients he was seeking like a mantra. He tried the lower cupboards first, but found little of interest. He had to raise himself on his toes to reach the upper ones. In the first one he opened he found a striped recorder; with a miserable groan, he closed the door and shuffled over to open the next one. In the second to last cupboard on the wall, he pushed aside a couple of packages of jelly babies and thrust his hand to the back to root around for the items he hoped to find.

His fingers collided with something long and rectangular. The Master groped around for a bit, straining upwards to reach it, before finally getting a good enough grip on it to pull it down. He recognized it instantly as the box that the Doctor had brought in the day before. “Delightful treats,” the Master recalled him saying, and decided he’d better be the judge of that. He tugged the half-full box open and pulled out a biscuit. Surely the Doctor wouldn’t miss one.

Surely the Doctor wouldn’t miss two biscuits, either, the Master thought a moment later. Upon further deliberation, he pulled out a third as well. Then he quietly closed the box, set it back where he’d found it, checked the last cabinet — derelict of anything he wanted, of course — and tucked the Danish biscuit recipe into his pocket. With a final glance around the kitchen and a haughty sniff directed at the food machine, the Master slipped into the corridor and marched to his bedroom to finish his preparations for his newest plan to destroy the Doctor’s unpleasant assumptions about him.

__________

With a self-satisfied smirk, the Master closed the door of his bedroom behind him. He clutched the handwritten copy he’d made of the ingredients he needed. As much as he loathed the idea of asking the Doctor for assistance in fetching them, he figured that in the long run, the progress he’d make toward proving the Doctor wrong would outweigh any temporary embarrassment he might suffer. For his purposes, he mused, the end justified the means.

His staccato steps echoed off the walls of the TARDIS corridors as he wove his way through them toward the console room. The Master let his mind wander as he approached the front of the ship, but not so much as to prevent him from noticing that he’d passed by the same door thrice in the past few minutes. He came to a halt in front of it when he saw it for the fourth time. “What is the meaning of this?” he hissed. The TARDIS hummed softly in response. “Why now? I don’t intend to do your owner any harm, however much he may deserve it!” The ship was silent. With a grumble, the Master reached out and opened the door. His eyes widened in surprise.

The dim lights overhead brightened when the Master entered the room. He swept his eyes across two state-of-the-art convection ovens, a large sink, and a long countertop adorned with copious amounts of every ingredient on his list. Though he didn’t much care for the Earth-like layout of this mysterious kitchen, it would serve his purposes quite well.

The Master quietly closed the door behind him and approached the counter. He inspected the measuring cups and spoons set out before each ingredient — all corresponded to the exact amount of them he required according to his list — and marveled at the way that the chicken eggs, which the TARDIS had cracked for him and kept separate in small bowls, glided when he swirled them around. He ran his fingers over the edge of a large bowl and the handles of a whisk and spoon that lay at the far end of the counter. There were several rectangular pans there, too, that he shuffled closer to examine.

The Master’s head shot up when the ship hummed and the ovens began thrumming. “All right, all right!” he huffed. “No need to rush me.” He abandoned his scrawled list of ingredients and procured the full recipe from his pocket. He smoothed it on the counter, forcing himself to temporarily abandon his uncertainties regarding the TARDIS' evident desire to help him. He could consider those after completing his project. The Master picked up the empty bowl and set to work.

__________

Not twenty minutes later, he’d pressed his first batch of dough into the bottom of a pan and inserted it into one of the ovens. When he closed the oven door, a small timer appeared in the upper right-hand corner. The other oven _bloop_ ed at him, and he rolled his eyes but set to work on a second batch without complaint. He figured that if he tried to slip away, the ship would continue rearranging itself to reroute him to the secret kitchen until he finished his work completely. As he stirred more ingredients together, he reckoned that after producing a great deal of biscuits — as the TARDIS was evidently encouraging him to do — the Doctor would be thoroughly surprised by the extent of his efforts and thenceforth reluctant to insult his intellectual prowess. He smiled to himself.

By the end of his fourth batch, the Master had established an efficient routine. He lined up his finished pans of biscuits on one end of the counter and whizzed through two final batches. When he dumped the last cracked egg into his mixing bowl, the ship seemed to sigh contentedly. The Master scoffed. “A load off _your_ chest, hm? My dear, the burdens of my intellectual pursuits are negligible compared to the stress that I've no doubt the Doctor causes you.” The TARDIS didn’t reply. The Master chuckled as he shoved his final pan of biscuits into the oven.

When he turned back to the counter, the ingredients had been removed and the surface was immaculate. His biscuits had been cut into neat squares and arranged extravagantly on a large platter. The Master glanced up at the ceiling. “Less cheeky now, are we?” The ship produced a beep that sounded remarkably like a harrumph. The Master shrugged and plucked a biscuit off the plate. He carefully nibbled at its edge, savoring its light texture and rich flavor — not terrible for such primitive cuisine, he thought — before pushing the rest into his mouth and dusting his hands off.

He picked up his plated biscuits and marched toward the door. “My hands are full,” he grumbled upon reaching it. “You could do me the service of opening the door.” The TARDIS didn’t reply. “You confounded machine! Open this door!” the Master demanded. When nothing happened, he heaved a deep breath and huffed, “Thank you for your assistance. _Please_ open the door.” The ship hummed softly and the door slid open. With an annoyed huff, the Master marched across the threshold and resumed his journey toward the console room.

__________

The Doctor was peering at something through a microscope lens when the Master emerged from the TARDIS a few moments later. He approached the lab table, clutching his massive heap of biscuits close to his chest, and cleared his throat obnoxiously when the Doctor didn’t so much as glance up at him. “You vanished for quite a while there, old chap,” the Doctor murmured, eyes still glued to the microscope. “I do hope you haven’t been wreaking havoc on my ship. That wouldn’t be very sporting.” He squinted more intently into the lens, then lifted his head to sketch something on a small pad by his elbow.

The Master did his best to slam the biscuits noisily on the table, nearly dropping them in the process. When they didn’t topple to the floor, he folded his arms across his chest and smirked. The Doctor finally turned to look at him. His eyes flicked over the square treats. “What in the name of Omega are these?”

“Those, my dear Doctor, are biscuits.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened. He flicked off the microscope and stood to examine the pile of biscuits more closely. He sniffed them cautiously. The Master scoffed, “They aren’t poisoned.”

“No, of course not.” The Doctor straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be a low trick, even for you.”

The Master did his best to ignore the Doctor’s insult. “Well?” he asked.

“What exactly do you intend to do with these?”

The Master rolled his eyes. “Come, come, Doctor. I thought you were familiar with Earth delicacies. They’re meant to be eaten.”

The Doctor ran a finger over his lips in thought. “There must be something more to it than that.”

“Surely you don’t suspect me of foul play?” When the Doctor didn’t respond, the Master added, “How insulting.”

The Doctor sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Well, old chap, your actions within the past week haven’t exactly assured me of your righteousness.”

The Master once more paid the Doctor’s jab no heed. “These,” he declared, gesturing at the biscuits, “are a take on a particular variety of biscuit from Scandinavia that dates back to the twelfth century.”

“Hm. You made them?”

“Of course. Why else would I have spent so much time in your old ship, other than to disprove your lofty notion of having superior knowledge about Earth culture than myself?”

The Doctor looked surprised. “You went to all this trouble because . . .” — he trailed off and took a different route instead, his eyes narrowing in suspicion — “You didn’t know about these when you first arrived here, did you?”

Now it was the Master’s turn to look taken aback. The gears in his mind whirred as he tried to cobble together a response; the Doctor had laid bare his ignorance, and he felt small and raw. The Master begrudgingly resigned himself to the act of salvaging his remaining dignity. He placed a hand between his hearts theatrically. “Doctor, you wound me with such an accusatory tone. Perhaps I didn’t, in which case my endeavor should be considered all the more honorable. I’ve shown quite profound dedication to my studies of Earth culture, limited though my ability to freely explore this planet may be.”

The corners of the Doctor’s mouth quirked upward. “Yes, you have. Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting such enthusiasm from you.” He rubbed his chin as he continued to gaze at the mountain of biscuits. “I must say, you do have quite a knack for mass production.”

“Ah, that would be the zeal of your TARDIS. She was very insistent that I make a great deal of biscuits. I’m sure no one will notice if you take one before the platter is offered to them.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “You intend to share these?”

“Why not?” the Master huffed. “I can hardly eat so many myself.”

“If you insist.” The Doctor offered him a grin. He plucked a biscuit off the plate and bit into it.

The Master watched the Doctor devour the biscuit with rapt attention. He caught himself waiting with bated breath for the Doctor’s assessment of his first (and, he hoped, last) baking project on Earth and forced the tension out of his muscles. He leaned against the lab table nonchalantly.

The Doctor finished the biscuit and brushed the crumbs off his fingers. “That was scrumptious,” he praised. “An excellent endeavor, my dear.” Before the Master could process what he’d said, the Doctor swooped forward and pressed a light kiss to the center of his forehead. The Master froze.

He still stood stiff as the Doctor picked another biscuit off the plate — he murmured something about nobody noticing if another one was gone — and resumed his work with the microscope. The Master opened and closed his mouth a few times, but failed to conjure up anything clever to say. He tried to quiet his addled brain with the reassurance that the Doctor's gesture had been nothing more than an eccentric acknowledgement of their friendship, however corrupt it may have become. That thought didn't do much in the way of comforting him, especially since he hadn't considered the Doctor to be his friend in eons. The Master wrinkled his nose when he detected a shard of hope — though for what, exactly, he wasn't sure — slicing its way through his hearts. He reached up to smooth his hair back and collect himself as best he could.

Luckily, the Master was saved from having to respond (he reflected later that the Doctor, absorbed in his work, likely wouldn’t have noticed if he had said anything anyhow) by Jo Grant rushing into the room with a bouquet of plastic daffodils. He blinked and shook his head to clear it as she approached the lab table, singing greetings to the Doctor. She gave him a terse “hello” in passing.

“Good afternoon, Miss Grant,” he replied, making sure to offer her a smooth smile.

“Doctor, the invasion clean-up is finished. Some technical boffins were recruited to take apart the larger bits, so I helped out with the daffodils,” she babbled. The Doctor had turned to look at her — the Master was most certainly _not_ jealous that Jo had managed to capture his attention so quickly — and beamed.

“That’s wonderful to hear, Jo. What do you intend to do with those remnants?”

“Oh, these?” Jo looked down at the daffodils she was clutching. “I asked if I could bring a few back now that they aren’t dangerous. Though I'd prefer it if they were natural" — the Master scowled — "I figured they'd brighten up this drab old place just fine. Would you like one?”

The Doctor reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Jo, but I don’t think having them around our friend here is a wise idea.” The Master huffed when Jo voiced her agreement. The Doctor continued, “I’m sure the UNIT chaps wouldn’t mind having them, though, to 'brighten up this drab old place,' as you so eloquently put it.”

Jo grinned. “All right, Doctor. I’ve got enough here for most of the officers, I think. I’ll go hand them out so they don’t, um, interfere with your progress here.” She turned to leave.

“Before you leave, Jo, you ought to taste these splendid biscuits,” the Doctor said, gesturing toward the platter on the lab table. Jo glanced at the biscuits.

"Oh, thanks! I didn't know you baked, Doctor," she said, popping one into her mouth.

"I've never known him to bake, either. I must confess, it was a slightly more enjoyable activity than I'd imagined it would be, though I tend to keep my entertainment standards quite low for less sophisticated planets," the Master smirked.

Jo choked on her mouthful of biscuit. "You — !"

"Now, Jo, they're perfectly safe," the Doctor interrupted. "I wouldn't offer you something that would endangered your life, would I?" He towered over her, placing his large hands on her shoulders.

Jo peered up at the Doctor and shook her head, swallowing the biscuit. The Master jabbed a finger in the air. "That's something I would like to address. Shouldn't you have given me the chance to offer the food that _I_ made, Doctor?"

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair and resumed his position on the lab stool. "My apologies, old chap. Perhaps I should have."

The Master snorted. He was prepared to say more, but Jo put an end to the Time Lords' bickering. "You know," she calmly addressed the Master, "that tasted rather like the butter biscuits my family used to eat during the holidays when I was a girl.” The Master flinched inwardly at the discovery that his biscuits were familiar to one of the Doctor’s abhorrent human companions. Still, he consoled himself, that was more or less the purpose of his undertaking and Jo’s prior knowledge was simply evidence of the globalization of Earth cuisine. There was no reason for him to expect that his baking project wouldn’t be considered run of the mill by the Doctor’s local associates; the Master suppressed the twinge of frustration rising within him and convinced himself that everything was going according to plan.

Jo flashed the Master a grin, which surprised him a bit, and bid him and the Doctor farewell before slipping out of the room with her faux flowers.

“Well?” the Master asked once she was gone.

“Well, what?” the Doctor countered, adjusting the lends of his microscope.

“Well, what am I supposed to do with these now?”

The Master’s stomach twisted into a knot when the Doctor's face split into a broad grin. "Oh, I'm sure they'll disappear before long. Just you wait and see."

With a forlorn sigh, the Master pulled up a stool beside his platter of biscuits and resigned himself to whatever obscure disappearing act the Doctor had hinted at. It turned out to be a steady stream of UNIT personnel with plastic daffodils stuffed in their breast pockets entering the lab in search of the biscuits that Jo had told them about. The Master grimaced but, seeing no easy escape from the situation, settled down for a couple of exhausting hours of human introductions and small talk.

__________

To his delight (though he'd never willingly admit it), the Master received plenty of compliments on his biscuits. Of course, his exchanges with the military humans hadn’t been enlightening, but then again, he hadn’t set his expectations for them particularly high. After the biscuits had vanished and the lingering officers had excused themselves, the Doctor and the Master were left alone in the lab in a silence that felt foreign to both of their ears after such long exposure to human babbling.

The Master shattered the silence first. “Well, Doctor,” he said, glancing at the darkening sky outside the window. “I do hope you didn’t want any more biscuits.” That earned him a small chuckle from the Doctor, who rose from his lab stool and grabbed the empty platter.

“I suppose my ship will be wanting this back,” he murmured, inspecting the dish. “You know, you held up remarkably well under that barrage of superficial conversation.”

The Master waved a hand and sighed. “All in a day’s work for me now, isn’t it?”

__________

As the Master settled under the blankets in his bedroom that evening, the Doctor’s TARDIS chirruped gently at him. _I thanked you earlier, you confounded antique_ , he thought, injecting as much bitterness into his mental voice as possible despite his exhaustion. The ship _bloop_ ed. _The Doctor’s happy with me?_ the Master clarified. The TARDIS hummed back. The Master rolled over and pulled the sheets over his head.

_The Doctor can feel however he wishes,_ he seethed, _but I am not obligated to care, nor am I so inclined._ The ship seemed to chortle lightly as the Master drifted off. She must have sensed the lack of force behind his declarations.


	5. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master discovers snow, much to UNIT's annoyance. The Doctor decides to help satiate the Master's curiosity and persuades the Brigadier to allow him to take his archenemy on an educational outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mild hypothermia.
> 
> Hello! This chapter contains descriptions of symptoms that are associated with mild hypothermia (including increased respiratory rate, increased heart rate, and shivering). I have not experienced mild hypothermia, nor am I a medical expert. I apologize if my portrayal of the symptoms and/or treatment is inaccurate. Please keep yourselves safe and let me know if there is anything that I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic!

The palladium rods were shipped to UNIT HQ a few days later. Within hours of their arrival, the Master had already inserted them into the dematerialization circuits and successfully tested their functionality. He resumed his work on the circuits with a ferocity that surpassed even the Doctor’s enthusiasm when it came to the odd scientific project. By daylight, his hands flitted across the lab table and his brow furrowed in concentration; under the sharp glow of the lab’s overhead lights, he raised his head only when an unusually large moth catapulted out of the velvety night and hit the window pane.

The Master wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed since he’d become the Doctor’s prisoner, but as far as he was concerned, it had been far too long already. The notion that he was under the Doctor’s hand left a bitter taste in his mouth that he had hoped to be rid of sooner. The tips of his fingers were raw from having pinched and maneuvered the components of each circuit. His eyelids drooped and the blood vessels in his forehead pounded relentlessly. Nevertheless, the Master doggedly continued his tiresome work, reassuring himself that each night he tumbled into bed rubbing at his strained eyes and sore neck was a step closer to his freedom.

__________

The Doctor shivered as he stepped out of his TARDIS. He’d have to have a word with the Brigadier about the heating unit in the laboratory. His equipment was cool to the touch when he sat down to finish a complicated chemical analysis he’d begun the night before. When he realized that he hadn’t received the snarky greeting that was typically hurled at him as soon as he stepped out of his ship, he paused, glancing toward the end of the lab table. The Master was noticeably absent.

With a resigned shrug, the Doctor returned his attention to the work in front of him. The Master was probably still in the TARDIS. The Doctor had seen the dark rings under his eyes and the tremor in his fingers. He quietly hoped that the poor fellow was getting a little rest.

Within the hour, the Doctor was finalizing his notes on his analysis. Someone knocked on the lab door. He didn't look up. "No, thank you."

Jo huffed a laugh as she stepped across the threshold. "Doctor, it's me!"

“Oh, hello, Jo.”

Jo smiled and folded her gloves, stuffing them into her pocket. “Have you seen the snow outside, Doctor?”

The Doctor hummed and finished sorting out his written report for the Brigadier.

“Where’s the Master?” Jo turned round to inspect all the corners of the room.

“Hm? I’m sure he’s in the TARDIS at the moment."

“Oh, I see."

"Look, I’m afraid I —” A cacophony in the hallway drowned out the rest of his words.

“What was that?” Jo asked, rushing to the door and peering outward.

The Doctor groaned and ran a hand over his face. “Oh, no. I hope they aren’t doing their dratted target practice so close to the building again!”

“Doctor, look! I think it’s serious!”

The Doctor shuffled into the corridor and over to the window that Jo was standing in front of. She stepped aside to make room for him. “What the blazes is going on down there?” At least a dozen UNIT troops were fanned out across the grounds, pointing weapons at — “Oh, my giddy aunt.”

The Doctor flew into the lab and back out a moment later, frantically shrugging his cloak on. He careened down the hallway toward the stairwell, pushing aside a UNIT officer clambering up the steps who hollered after him that he was needed right away.

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted as he burst outside. He waved frantically at the officers assembled in a large semicircle around the building until they hesitantly lowered their weapons. The Doctor’s boots crunched in the snow as he cautiously approached a black-clad figure huddled in the snow.

He knelt beside the Master, hiding him from view of the UNIT troops, and extended his hand to brush a few snowflakes out of his hair. “You idiot,” he murmured, “What have you done to yourself?” He tilted the Master’s chin up and swallowed thickly when he noticed that his eyes were unfocused. He swung his cloak off his shoulders and bundled the Master’s body in it before scooping him off the ground.

The Master trembled in the Doctor’s arms. His breath created small, rapid puffs of steam in the frigid air as he was carried swiftly inside. On their way up the stairs, the Master fisted a weak hand in the Doctor’s frilly shirt. “I am many things,” he croaked, “But an idiot, Doctor . . .” he trailed off into a low groan. His head fell back against the Doctor’s upper arm. “I will not tolerate . . .”

“Oh, please be quiet,” the Doctor snapped. He swept around the corner into the second-floor corridor. Spying his assistant where he’d left her by the window, he bellowed, “Jo! Will you bring us a cup of tea?” Jo nodded and hurried away.

The Doctor tore through the TARDIS, hurtling around corners in such rapid succession that the Master squeezed his eyes shut, whining about feeling dizzy. Ignoring him, the Doctor sped through a door that flew open before them to reveal a comfortable reading room. He deposited the Master gently on a sofa and procured his sonic screwdriver from his breast pocket. He pointed the device at a large fireplace, which suddenly roared to life.

“Come on, old chap, sit up. We need to get you out of these clothes.” The Master swatted at the Doctor as he tried to unbutton his damp jacket. The Doctor caught his hands and pressed them into the sofa cushions. “There's no doubt your fingers are too numb to take care of this on your own.” With a grumble, the Master kept still until the Doctor finished.

“I won’t be a moment,” the Doctor announced before hustling out of the room. The TARDIS _boop_ ed as the Master wriggled out of his wet clothes. He turned to find an identical suit neatly folded on the cushion beside him. His movements were lethargic as he slipped it on; unfortunately, his frustration with his slowness only addled his mind further. He groaned when he finished dressing and sank back onto the sofa. The fire bathed him in a warm, soothing glow.

The Doctor returned with a steaming cup of tea. He set it on an end table next to the sofa and circled the room, snatching blankets off pieces of eclectic furniture scattered about. He quietly assisted the Master with buttoning up his jacket and lying down on the sofa. “These —” the Master started to say, but the Doctor shushed him and draped a few blankets over his legs before pressing two fingers against his wrist.

“Your heartsrate is atypically fast, but your respiratory rate is evening out and you’ve stopped shivering so dreadfully,” he babbled, stuffing a couple of pillows behind the Master’s back to prop him up a bit.

“These primitives don’t . . . don’t appreciate the full potential of that . . . substance,” the Master muttered as the Doctor lifted the cup of tea to his lips.

“What substance, snow?”

“Mm.” Keeping his lips clamped shut, the Master turned his head away from the tea.

“My dear fellow, I believe they do. They certainly fear its potential effects enough to protect themselves against it with warm clothing and controlled fire.” The Doctor huffed in exasperation. “Look, open up, will you, this will help you!”

The Master reluctantly allowed the tea to be tipped into his mouth. After he swallowed a few sips, the Doctor pulled the cup away and dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin. The Doctor began to extend the drink once more but hesitated when he noticed the Master’s eyelids drooping. “No, I think not,” he murmured to himself, returning the tea to the end table.

The Master’s eyes snapped open when the Doctor yanked a pillow out from behind his back. “Sorry, old chap,” he apologized, helping ease the Master further down onto the sofa. The Doctor checked his nemesis’ heartsbeat again — it had evened out enough to quell his concerns — before tucking the blankets more tightly around him.

He turned to leave, but paused. The gentle rise and fall of the Master's chest was comforting after such a precarious brush with danger. The Doctor shook his head, his hearts swelling with silent gratitude for the Master's wellbeing. He returned to his old friend's side and gently smoothed his dark hair back. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned down and pecked the Master's forehead. Then, satisfied, he took the half-empty cup of tea from the end table and pulled the door to the reading room shut as quietly as possible.

__________

“May I remind you, Doctor, that as a serving member of UNIT —”

“Only in an advisory capacity.”

“— it was your responsibility to keep watch over this Master fellow.” The Brigadier tapped a finger impatiently on his desk.

“My dear Alistair, I assure you I have.”

The Brigadier raised an eyebrow. “Then why was it he was found shivering in a pile of snow well outside your lab this morning?”

The Doctor ran a finger across his lips. “Yes, well, Earth snow is rather a novelty for Time Lords, you see. On most planets in our sector of the galaxy, precipitation is bright blue.”

“Never mind that. I didn’t call you here to discuss alien phenomena, Doctor. I want to know why the Master was out gallivanting around the grounds!”

“Brigadier,” the Doctor huffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “He most certainly wasn’t gallivanting. The snow must've intrigued him, so he slipped out to examine it. He hardly seemed to know what it was when I brought him inside.”

“He is your prisoner, Doctor.”

“Yes, you won’t let me forget it. May I in turn remind you that I am the only being on this planet who has the ability to effectively restrain him if necessary?”

“I rather think that’s the only reason he’s still in your custody.” Lethbridge-Stewart folded his hands in front of him.

“He is still in my custody because I also happen to be the only being on this planet who can provide him with the means to leave it.”

“Ah, yes. Are you going to go romping about the universe when he’s finished fixing your . . . er, what was it?”

“My dematerialization circuit.” The Doctor pursed his lips and turned in an agitated circle. “I’m afraid I can’t. Even if it is repaired” — sabotage, he mused, wouldn’t be below the Master — “I must wait for the Time Lords to restore my knowledge of the dematerialization codes before I can leave without difficulty.”

The Brigadier shook his head at the Doctor’s technobabble and declared, “Good. We could use your assistance here for a while yet.”

“Good?” the Doctor snapped. When the Brigadier was quite certain he was going to get an earful about free will and the Doctor’s loathing for being trapped on Earth, the Doctor’s expression changed. He hummed thoughtfully.

“What is it?”

“Well, Alistair, I believe I have an idea that will put an end to your concerns about the Master’s insatiable curiosity.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Indulge it in a controlled environment.”

The Doctor’s idea of a “controlled environment” was infinitely different from the Brigadier’s. He insisted that bringing snow up to the lab wouldn’t satisfy the Master. “I’ll take him to Trafalgar Square. There will be plenty of people interacting with snow there, in addition to useful props for a satisfactory lesson in Earth history and culture.”

“You will do no such thing! The Master is a dangerous criminal. I can't afford to risk the exposure of hordes of innocent people to him.”

“There’s no need to worry, old chap. He’ll be perfectly well-behaved as long as he's with me.”

The Brigadier put up quite a good fight, but inevitably submitted to the Doctor's seamless logic. He sighed, mumbled a vague threat to remove the Master from the Doctor’s custody at the first sign of trouble from him, and waved the Doctor away. The Doctor smiled.

To his pleasant surprise, the Doctor found the Master exactly as he had left him, though a considerable amount of color had returned to his cheeks. After checking the Master's heartsrate, he settled into an armchair to wait for him to wake. Though he felt energized from his verbal spar with the Brigadier, the warmth of the fire and the calming regularity of the Master's breath quickly lulled him into a doze.

__________

The Master was jolted awake by a lord snort. He inhaled deeply to gather himself, slowly turning his head to the side to glance at his surroundings. Rolling his eyes when he spied the Doctor sleeping nearby, he took stock of his physical state: drained, but otherwise unharmed. Perhaps he felt a bit hungry, too. He swung his legs off the sofa, carefully bundling the blankets at the far end, and crept out of the room.

The Master’s hands shook as he reached for the box of custard creams. Just when he thought he’d managed to grasp it, the package seemed to leap out of his fingers. Its crash on the floor was accompanied by a loud string of Gallifreyan curses. The Master covered his mouth, eyes wide, and glanced at the door before cautiously kneeling and picking up the biscuits strewn across the ground.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

The Master froze, hand outstretched for another biscuit. He gritted his teeth and figured that the TARDIS must have helped the Doctor make such a silent approach. “No need to remind me of my presence on Earth, Doctor.” He finished tidying up the biscuits.

“That doesn’t answer my — good grief, _you’ve_ been eating my custard creams!”

“Well, naturally! We’re the only two beings on this ship! Really, Doctor, your insolence astounds me. Unless your TARDIS somehow worked up an appetite . . .” The Master trailed off and with a shrug — the game was up, anyway — popped a custard cream into his mouth.

The ship _beep_ ed softly; the Doctor reflexively patted the doorframe to comfort her. “Yes, well, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. That was quite a petulant trick you pulled earlier.”

“You mock my intellectual pursuits?” the Master snapped.

The Doctor scratched the back of his neck. “I figured that was what they were. Though this evening, I recommend dressing for the occasion.”

Bristling, the Master hissed, “And what exactly is happening this evening, Doctor?”

“Something I think will quench your thirst for exploration,” the Doctor said, crossing the room and plucking a custard cream out of the box. He held it up. “Did you follow the five second rule?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The five second rule. You know, some humans wouldn’t eat this if it had been on the ground for more than five seconds.”

The Master scoffed. “You distrust the sanitation of your ship’s floor?”

“Come now, I thought it might be nice to expose you to a little more human culture while you’re still here.”

“Will you _please_ stop gloating about your profound understanding of these imbeciles.”

“I’m not gloating,” the Doctor declared between bites, “I’m simply expanding your intellectual horizons.” He took the box of custard creams from the Master and tucked it back into the cabinet, murmuring to himself that he needed to get a new box soon.

“Well, I suggest you rest up before tonight.” The Doctor cupped the Master's cheek in his hand and peered into his eyes, no doubt assessing him for any further hypothermia symptoms. "You gave me quite a scare, my dear," he murmured, sliding his fingers down to the Master's neck to take his pulse.

The Master's throat bobbed as he swallowed. His nemesis was fussing over him. He ought to have been boiling with rage, but he felt oddly tranquil as he watched the Doctor's eyes flick over him. They brimmed with an amount of genuine care that the Master would never have previously believed was possible for a single being to possess. His skin felt cold when the Doctor removed his hand, evidently satisfied with his impromptu medical examination.

"A bit of rest ought to do you a world of good."

The Master frantically snatched up the threads of the conversation and manipulated his features into an expression he hoped looked suave. "What exactly are we doing this evening that requires my strength?"

"You'll have to wait and see. Rest up. Doctor's orders." The Doctor winked and vanished down the corridor before the Master could pry him for details. He huffed, scowling at the ceiling.

“He won’t tell me, will he?” The TARDIS _bloop_ ed. With a deeper scowl, the Master growled, “I abhor surprises.”


	6. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor takes the Master to Trafalgar Square to give him a better idea of what winter can be like on Earth. However, not everything goes according to plan; when they lose each other, instead of trying to find the Doctor, the Master decides to cause unruly shenanigans to make it easy for the Doctor to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little late for the holiday season!
> 
> CW: kissing.
> 
> This chapter contains a somewhat (poorly) graphic description of a deep kiss. There is no sexual activity associated with the kiss. I have marked the beginning and end of the section in which it occurs with a bolded "XXXXX" if you would like to avoid it. Please take care of yourselves and let me know if there is anything that I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic!

The crunch of Bessie’s tires against the ice and loose gravel near the curb brought the Master out of the reverie he’d descended into almost as soon as he and the Doctor had left UNIT HQ. He couldn't puzzle out how the Doctor had managed to convince the unflappable Brigadier to let them go out on this excursion. But, regardless — “Here we are,” the Doctor said cheerily, climbing out of the car.

The Master sighed as his feet hit the ground. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of the oversized coat that the Doctor had lent him for the evening (sophisticated black tweed; he had been surprised that the Doctor owned something that wasn't a battleground for outrageous patterns) and peered around at the snow-covered buildings that rose high above his head, their icy facades glistening in the light of dusk. “Where have you brought us?”

“Into the city.” Gesturing for the Master to follow him, the Doctor set off down the sidewalk. The Master rolled his eyes and grumbled before following. He had to trot to keep up with the Doctor’s long strides. Given their notable height difference, it was a wonder that the Doctor’s coat fit him. Its weight was unfamiliar, but the Doctor had insisted that he wear it to prevent anything worse than that morning's incident from happening. The Master didn’t fail to note that the Doctor had ignored his own advice in favor of wearing his cloak with the purple lining. Surely that ridiculous thing couldn't keep out the cold.

“Here, take this,” the Doctor said, pressing a few colorful pieces of paper into his hand. “UNIT-approved, to my surprise, though I’m quite sure we won’t have any use for it.” The Master fondled the bills in his hand, squinting at their vibrant images.

“Then why did you go to the trouble of bringing it?”

“My dear fellow, I’m sure you’ve noticed that UNIT likes to keep their bases covered. In theory, this ought to discourage us from stealing by giving us the means to avoid unlawful activity.”

The Master raised an eyebrow. “To keep _us_ from stealing, Doctor?” He wondered what trouble his nemesis had managed to get himself into since his exile to Earth. To his annoyance, the Doctor didn’t respond, though he wasn't entirely sure if he was being intentionally ignored — the babble of the steadily increasing number of people thronging around them made it rather difficult to hear. The Master stuffed the currency in his coat pocket and swerved behind the Doctor to avoid getting mowed over by a stream of humans.

“Oh, confound it —” he muttered a moment later, rubbing his nose where it had smashed into the Doctor’s back. He opened his mouth to snap at the Doctor for stopping so abruptly, but a peek around his adversary gave him more fodder for conversation. “Look at them, scurrying like ants,” the Master bellowed to be heard over the hubbub of traffic. Vehicles careened around a circular curve adorned with an equestrian statue; pedestrians scurried across the street and flowed in and out of extravagant buildings. The Master leaned forward to look at a slender obelisk flanked by large lions to their left.

“Yes, they have a remarkably rigid society. Their hive mind is astonishingly pervasive. I gather many of them have just clocked out. Hence the rush.” The Doctor stepped off the curb. With a glance at the teeming humans on the sidewalk, the Master hopped into the street after him. An omnibus hurtling around the bend in the road screeched to a halt, blaring its horn. With an undignified shriek, the Master snatched the Doctor's hand and sprinted to the opposite curb. The omnibus roared past.

“You imbecile!” the Master shouted up at his nemesis. The roar of other vehicles behind them drowned out his next words, but he still managed to drive some of his point home. “Look!” He lifted his arm, shaking the Doctor’s hand off in the process, to point at a few clumps of people crossing the street in between two neat dotted lines. “The humans use designated areas to reduce the likelihood that they’ll be flattened by their ridiculous machines!”

The Doctor grinned and yelled back, “Yes, but they aren’t having much fun, are they?”

“Fun?!” the Master screeched, but the Doctor had begun to weave through the masses of people in the middle of the — _circus_ , the Master gleaned from nearby signage — toward the obelisk. He fought his way upstream in the current of humans, keeping his eyes locked on the Doctor’s shock of white hair as he ambled across a different part of the street, thankfully without another accident.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” the Doctor asked when the Master reached his side, winded from his exertions. His breath created great plumes of steam in the air. The crowd milled around them, giving them a small bubble of relative peace to stand in as they gawked at an enormous spruce tree.

It was difficult to tell exactly how tall the tree was since its shadowy branches were camouflaged against a darkening sky, so the Master reverted to his age-old tactic of assuming the inferiority of whatever he happened to be looking at. “For this insignificant planet, perhaps. You and I have both seen more spectacular flora.” He reached up to rub the tips of his ears, which had grown uncomfortably cold, and murmured curses at Earth weather.

The Doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the Master’s jab at the tree. “Come on, old chap,” he nudged the Master’s shoulder and began to lead him around the area, pointing at the monuments in their vicinity. The Master could hardly hear a word he said and trudged along behind him solemnly, making patterns in the layer of snow on the ground with his toes whenever the Doctor paused to explain something. He was somewhat startled when the Doctor seized his shoulder and pointed wildly at the tree, which had begun to sparkle with brilliant light.

The Doctor made for the tree like a moth flocking to an incandescent bulb; when the Master turned to follow him, he was pushed back by an unruly gaggle of humans that happened to pass by. Disoriented, he set his sights on the tree, but couldn’t spy the Doctor among the figures bustling around its trunk. “Doctor?” he called. “Doctor!” When no response came, he sighed and fingered the currency in his pocket. The sensation of the paper gliding against itself calmed him somewhat as he tried to get his bearings.

At least he didn’t have to pretend to listen to the Doctor prattle on about Earth matters any longer, the Master reckoned with a grin. However, his smile vanished when he recalled his reliance on the Doctor for his freedom. He’d have to find him eventually. He whirled around, torn between a desire to find the Doctor in order to escape the sea of humans he was drowning in and a growing impulse to indulge himself in a temporary escape from the Doctor’s patronizing disposition. The Master knew full well that he'd be returned to UNIT as an extraterrestrial prisoner in any case, so he turned his back on the dazzling tree and marched through sludgy snow that glittered under the light spilling from street lamps until he found a small, cozy shop to duck into and warm his tingling cheeks and ears.

The Master rubbed his hands together, reveling in the warmth of the shop. He ducked behind a shelf of colorful products when he noticed a young lady staring at him from behind a counter. As he ran his gloved fingers mindlessly across assorted boxes, the Master considered his next move. He’d found himself in a situation like this some years ago, when he was fresh out of the Academy — he’d sought warmth from relentless solar winds in a quaint establishment and was seized when he tried to leave without doing business there. He shuddered at the memory and paused abruptly when a nondescript package caught his eye.

“Is this all for you, sir?”

“Er, yes, yes, that is all.”

The young woman politely asked for a few pounds. The Master’s eyes widened. With a muttered, “Oh yes, of course” he plunged his hand into his coat pocket and drew out the colorful bills the Doctor had handed to him what felt like two lifetimes ago. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he frantically fiddled with the money. The young woman’s keen gaze made his hands jittery — he was superior, he ought to have figured out how to make transactions with this primitive currency by then — and he finally dumped all of the bills on the counter in exasperation, mumbling something that was incoherent even to himself.

The woman calmly plucked the amount she needed out of the jumbled pile of money. The Master snatched up the rest and wadded it into a messy ball in his haste to return it to his pocket. He tucked his new box of custard creams into his remaining pocket and muttered a terse farewell to the clerk before slipping back out into the street.

The frigid air helped soothe the Master’s nerves and rein in his rash inclinations. However much he loathed the idea of admitting his discombobulation on Earth, he reasoned that he needed to find the Doctor if he hoped to survive the perpetual stampede of humans and navigate their customs effectively. The Master pressed himself against a wall and took a deep breath before plunging into the horde of people streaming up and down the sidewalk. He fought his way back to the equestrian statue that the Doctor had presented to him with gusto just a short while earlier. Turning slowly on the spot, the Master failed to see the Doctor in his immediate vicinity. Well, then. He’d have to return to the tree. At the thought of shoving his way through more humans, the Master let out a string of curses that would have permanently paralyzed any member of the High Council with shock.

As he made his way toward the designated crossing area on the street that separated him from the tree, a horn blared. The Master started at the sudden noise, but smiled as the gears in his mind began whirring. He wouldn’t have to exhaust himself weaving through a maze of bumbling primitives, after all. He’d bring the Doctor to him.

__________

“‘This tree is given by the city of Oslo as a token of Norwegian gratitude to the people of London for their assistance during the years 1940-45,’” the Doctor read to himself. He lifted his eyes from the tree’s plaque to gaze up at its twinkling branches. “You know,” he mused, conveniently disregarding the potent reminder of Earth warfare, “humans can be remarkably adept at thanksgiving when they’re so inclined. Come along now, old chap, why don’t we . . .” He paused, eyes wide, and turned around in a futile search for the Master. “Dash it all.” The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped away from the tree, frantically trying to deduce his old friend’s most likely location.

A handful of shouts and obnoxious car horns caught his attention. Rolling his eyes, the Doctor muttered, “Oh, no.” He rushed toward the source of the noise, excusing himself brusquely as he collided with people. Perhaps the Brigadier was right, he begrudgingly conceded to himself — bringing the Master to Trafalgar Square may not have been his brightest idea, however educational the trip may have been. He pushed through a gathering mob on the curb. “Oh, good grief!”

“. . . cannot refute the truth! One must either rule or serve,” he caught the Master bellowing from atop a cab in the center of the street. A handful of people, including the driver of the cab, shouted at him angrily. The Master held up his hands and turned in a slow circle on his improvised stage. The Doctor caught the mischievous glint in his eyes as they swept the congregating spectators. When his audience had quieted enough for him to continue, he cried, “Primitive species have always been resistant to enlightenment. I daresay —” The Master was interrupted by the approaching wail of sirens. Steam curled from his nostrils as he huffed in annoyance.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” the Doctor shouted, pushing his way through the teeming crowd. He clambered up onto the cab beside the Master, earning himself a very dissatisfied holler from the driver. The Master growled and folded his arms across his chest as the Doctor turned to address the assembled people. “Apologies for the confusion, ladies and gentlemen! My friend means no harm to you.” Despite the Master’s vocal and physical protests, he wrapped his arm around the Master’s shoulders and began to pull him down from the car.

The reflections of emergency vehicle lights began to twinkle in the windows of the buildings around the square. “We shall leave at once!” the Doctor continued, tugging the Master through the bemused mob of humans. “No harm done! Good night, mesdames et messieurs!” He shoved the Master down a dark side street. They joined hands (the Master reciprocating the grip somewhat less enthusiastically) and careened through the streets of London.

__________

“What the blazes did you think you were doing?” the Doctor hissed, his chest heaving as he maneuvered Bessie through the looming buildings of the city.

The Master sat more rigidly, if that was possible, in his seat. “Finding you, Doctor. An infallible scheme.”

“Hardly,” the Doctor snorted.

Through gritted teeth, the Master retorted, “Well, it was evidently successful.”

They continued to bicker in low voices as Bessie wove through the icy streets, only lapsing into silence when they both felt that they had made their most potent jabs at one another. The Master turned to watch the bleak landscape fly by, relishing the soft noise that his gloves created when he drummed his fingers on the seat. As they homed in on UNIT HQ, the Master’s brow furrowed. “Your friend, Doctor?”

“Hm?” came the intelligent reply.

The Master frowned. “You called me your friend.” When the Doctor failed to react, he doggedly added, “On top of that cab.”

The Doctor’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Yes, well, I, er — oh, splendid, we’ve arrived.” He flashed a pass (with remarkably minimal grouching on his part) at the entrance to the complex and pulled into his customary parking space. The Master eyed him curiously as he fidgeted with the edge of his cloak all the way to the laboratory.

__________

The Master had never seen the Doctor so forlorn before. He whisked into the lab, tossed his cloak onto the coat rack, and deflated onto a lab stool, running his long fingers through his hair and fretting in a low voice about what he’d tell the Brigadier if word reached him about a disturbance at Trafalgar Square. Perhaps the primary purpose of his brilliant idea hadn’t been fulfilled, either, he mused aloud. The Master entered the lab in the Doctor’s wake, listening to his woes as he slowly, deliberately shucked his borrowed coat and hung it up. He rifled through its pockets, seizing his remaining currency. His eyes widened when his hand closed around the box of custard creams; he’d nearly forgotten he’d bought it. Concealing the biscuits behind his back, the Master approached the lab table.

He placed his change on the tabletop and slid it across to the Doctor, who, as the Master expected, immediately recognized that it didn’t match the initial amount he’d been given. “Don’t tell me you lost the rest of it,” the Doctor grumbled, pawing at the bills. Wordlessly, the Master placed the box of custard creams between them. The Doctor stared at it, lips parted slightly. His tongue flicked out to moisten them. “You . . .”

“Your supply was rather low,” the Master cut in. He would have added a sharp stab at the Doctor’s ego, but with the Doctor looking utterly defeated, he couldn’t find it in himself to insult him. Though he certainly wouldn’t admit it, his spirits soared when a slow smile spread across the Doctor’s face.

“That’s quite thoughtful of you, my dear. They really are irresistibly scrumptious, aren’t they?” The Master watched the Doctor open the box and pop a biscuit into his mouth. As he bit into it, he offered the box to the Master, who closed it and set it down.

The Master’s hearts thrummed in his chest as the Doctor frowned in confusion. He forced his breath to stay even, straining to maintain his usual suave demeanor. As soon as the Doctor swallowed the biscuit and opened his mouth to say something, the Master pounced.

**XXXXX**

The Doctor’s sharp intake of breath froze the Master's hearts as he pressed their lips together. He squeezed his eyes shut, frantically grasping at every shred of hope he had left that he hadn’t managed to botch everything with his only fellow Time Lord during his brief stay on Earth. Then the Doctor’s mouth was moving against his, and the Doctor’s hand was sliding into his hair, pulling him closer, and the Master became pliant in his firm grasp.

When the Master clumsily prodded at the Doctor’s lips with his tongue, the Doctor welcomed him in with a breathy sound that made the Master keen. Their tongues slid together in a battle for dominance and the Master pulled back a fraction to smile at their never-ending rivalrous antics before diving in for more, savoring the lingering taste of custard cream in the Doctor’s mouth.

**XXXXX**

When the Doctor’s mind brushed his, the Master catapulted backwards, chest heaving. He grabbed hold of the lab table to steady himself and quell the shock coursing through his veins. The Doctor looked prepared to apologize, but the Master had no interest in navigating a diplomatic minefield. He held up a hand, taking a moment to catch his breath. When he raised his eyes to peer at the Doctor, he didn’t fail to notice the twinge of red in his cheeks and lips that contrasted with his white hair. The Master had to clear his throat before he could articulate any meaningful sound. “You’re right, Doctor, they are quite scrumptious,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “However, I find that they lack a certain je ne sais quoi when enjoyed straight from the box.”


	7. Portraiture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Master tries the Doctor's patience, the Doctor abandons his work for the day and shows off one of his many hidden talents. The Master is reluctant to show the Doctor how chuffed he is when he sees what the Doctor has done.

The weather was nearly as bleak as the Master’s mood over the course of the next few days. He toiled away at the Doctor’s dematerialization circuit, wallowing in a noxious concoction of frustration, self-pity, and regret. As the Doctor bustled around the lab, the Master snuck anxious glances up at him in anticipation of some form of acknowledgement of the change in their relationship. He knew the Doctor had caught him staring more than once, but he always shifted his gaze to the clouds churning outside the window in a feeble attempt to save face. The Master had admittedly grown close to his adversary over the courses of their many lives, but they’d never been cooped up together indefinitely. With no place to run, he felt like a fish out of water, flailing about to preserve his dignity on a planet that automatically degraded any sensible Time Lord associated with it.

At least, the Master mused, the Brigadier hadn’t caught wind of the incident at Trafalgar Square. Surely the Doctor would never let him live it down if either of them had been disciplined for it. Narrowing his eyes, the Master tweaked a pair of wires and scrambled back when the circuit started hissing, pressing a handkerchief over his nose and mouth as a great plume of smoke billowed up from the device. The Doctor, caught off guard, hacked obnoxiously.

“Will you please stop making that disagreeable noise?” the Master snapped.

“Well,” the Doctor rasped, fanning smoke out of his face, “a little warning would have been appreciated.”

The Master tucked his handkerchief back into his breast pocket and resumed his seat at the far end of the lab table. “Ah, I see you’re not familiar with the side effects of steady-state micro-welding.”

“What?”

“Steady-state micro-welding. It’s a very delicate procedure. I wouldn’t expect you to understand it.”

The raw indignation that twisted the Doctor’s features made the Master feel giddy. “Wouldn’t expect me to . . . ! I spent three months welding that circuit!”

“Oh?” The Master quirked an eyebrow. “That explains why most of the circuit boards are so badly singed.”

The Doctor grumbled to himself as he returned his attention to the mass spectrometry data in front of him. He marked up a few graphs perhaps a bit more aggressively than was necessary. With a smirk, the Master glanced back down at the Doctor’s circuit. “Rassilon’s ring! What’s this?” The Doctor rolled his eyes but set down his pen and ambled over to see what the Master was pointing at anyway.

“Ah, yes, I’m afraid that was the result of a rather unfortunate accident.” The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck and flopped back onto his lab stool.

“An accident, Doctor?”

“Yes, it was Jo’s first day as my assistant.”

The Master scoffed as he examined the circuit. “I can hardly work with this, but I suppose it must do. By the way, where is Miss Grant?”

“I don’t think she’s entirely comfortable around you yet, old chap. I’m sure the Brigadier is keeping her occupied.”

“Ah, that’s quite a shame. You see —” The Master trailed off when the Doctor slammed his pen down on the table and tore at his hair in exasperation.

“Look, would you at least try to finish your work? You’ve been here far too long for its completion to be considered remotely timely!”

The Master’s nostrils flared as he poked at the Doctor’s circuit. “May I remind you, Doctor, that I am working with far more primitive technology than I am accustomed to using?”

“Well, then, it can hardly be that difficult for you to fix, can it?”

“Infernal cheek,” the Master muttered, then blanched when he raised his eyes to find the Doctor staring intently at him. He quickly shifted his expression into a scowl. “Since you’re so keen on your circuit being finished, why don’t you try repairing it?”

“I already have.”

“Ah, so you admit your intellectual inferiority.”

“I’ve done no such thing!” the Doctor growled. His frown deepened when the Master stood back, gesturing toward the circuit. With a huff, he took up the seat at the end of the lab table. The Master puttered around the room aimlessly, unsurprised when the Doctor yelped and wiped soot off his cheek with his singed hand.

He tutted as he analyzed the motor the Doctor had messed with, earning himself a steely glare from his nemesis. “Such petulance, Doctor. Perhaps you could stand to learn a bit of that high and mighty patience you preach.”

Cowed, the Doctor made way for the Master to continue his work. When he strained to peek over the Master’s shoulder, the Master shooed him away. “Ah, ah, ah, Doctor. Your criminal actions have deprived you of the right to properly fix and utilize this technology. What ever happened to your moral high ground?”

With an exasperated sigh, the Doctor retreated to his workspace to sulk. The Master didn’t miss the flash of mischievous excitement in his eyes when he suddenly swept the sheets of data littering the table to the side and seized a pad of paper. He ripped off the top sheet, which was jam-packed with calculations and strange doodles, and began scribbling furiously on the fresh sheet beneath in broad pencil strokes.

In the relative silence of the lab, the obnoxious graphite-on-paper scrape of line after line made the Master's eardrums feel as if they were being pressed through an apple slicer. After a few fruitless attempts to return his attention to the Doctor’s circuit, he slammed his fist on the table and hissed, “What could you possibly be doing that justifies making such a racket?”

The Doctor didn’t so much as glance up at him. With a sharp exhale and a shake of his head, the Master reached up to fiddle with a frayed wire. He cursed under his breath when the Doctor’s vigorous scribbling continued. That grabbed the Doctor’s attention. “Such a foul tongue, my dear fellow. I can’t imagine it’s terribly helpful with your work.”

Mumbling more curses about “that dratted noise,” the Master left the Doctor to his irksome antics. He knew his old friend well enough — unless the Doctor was prepared to laud his work or its progress, he’d keep silent about it. With gritted teeth, the Master poked and prodded a resistor into place. At least the Doctor was occupied enough not to spot him slipping a few freshly sautered tangles of wires into his lap and securing them inside his own circuit.

__________

As the beams of sunlight streaming in through the window shifted across the floor, gradually creeping toward the far wall of the room and then painting the diagrams hung there with an orange glow, the Doctor’s scribbling became more deliberate. The Master had repeatedly tried to peek at his paper, but the jumbled mess of scientific equipment on the table obscured it from his view. Eventually, figuring he'd done quite enough work for one day, he dropped the screwdriver he was holding on the table and cradled his head in his hands, scrubbing at his eyes. The Doctor peered up at him for a moment, then returned his attention to whatever had managed to occupy him for the past 8 hours. With a theatrical huff, the Master folded his arms across his chest and stared intently at the Doctor as he manipulated his pencil to make a few slow, calculated squiggles.

After a few moments of terse silence, the Doctor ripped the page off the pad he’d been working on and held it up so that both it and the Master were in his line of sight. He grinned. “Oh, yes, that’s a job well done. It deserves a signature.” He reached for a sharp pencil and signed the corner of the paper with an elaborate flourish, then slid the sheet wordlessly across the table to the Master.

The Master nearly crumpled the paper in his eagerness to see what in Omega’s name the Doctor had made. He froze, gaze sliding between the paper and the Doctor as he scrunched his nose in a practiced display of disgust. “I wasn't aware that portraiture was one of your duties as a scientific advisor," he grumbled. "My mouth isn’t that thin, surely.” The Master turned the drawing, scrutinizing it from every angle. Reaching up to rub his chin, he continued, “And my beard doesn't look nearly as smashing as it does in actuality.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Come now, old chap, it’s a striking likeness.”

He received a harrumph in reply as the Master leaned closer to the page, considering the art carefully before at last muttering, “I’m afraid you haven’t accurately captured the magnificence of my eyebrows." He extended the portrait to arm’s-length and set it smartly on the table, then braced himself on his forearms in a pose that he hoped looked more suave than it felt. “Overall, a four out of ten likeness. Ten being the best, of course.”

The Doctor ran a finger over his lips and clicked his tongue. “Overall, a one out of ten reception.”

“As the humans say, ‘don’t shoot the messenger,’ Doctor. I was merely providing you with a truthful critique of your art.”

The Doctor snorted, glanced at his wristwatch, and promptly excused himself to make his daily report to the Brigadier on the Master’s state as a prisoner of UNIT. The Master’s face fell at the reminder of his captivity, but he kept his mouth shut as the Doctor hastened out of the lab. He reached for the portrait, carefully running his fingertips over the expertly placed lines defining his physiognomy. His face was fixed in its typical half-scowl, but he felt that rigidity evaporating from his real features as his thumb caressed the signature in the corner of the page: “Theta Sigma”.

__________

The Doctor threw open the door not an hour later, a greeting on his lips, and found the lab devoid of life. His shoes scuffed the ground as he paused in front of the lab table. With a grin, he noted the absence of his portrait. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, the Doctor whistled gaily as he headed into the TARDIS for the night.


	8. Daffodils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor wants to make the lab more cheery, but not everything goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: allergies.
> 
> Hello! This chapter contains descriptions of a light allergic response. I have not experienced such a response, nor am I a medical expert. I apologize if my portrayal of the symptoms is inaccurate. Please let me know if there is anything that I ought to fix in the tags and/or in the fic!

With a quick glance at the lab door to make sure the Doctor hadn’t returned from his gardening excursion — “You know, there’s quite a bit of stunning flora here, old chap,” he’d said while shrugging a blue velvet jacket on, and the Master had rolled his eyes, irked by the Doctor's constant quest for occupation in his idle hours — the Master pulled his dematerialization circuit out of his pocket and set it on the table next to the Doctor’s. He bent over it and set about frantically tweaking wires and adjusting motors. When he finished fiddling with it, he slipped it back into his pocket, congratulating himself on a secretive job well done; just in time, too, because he heard the scuff of the Doctor’s shoes outside of the door.

“Hello,” the Doctor grinned, dumping an armful of freshly cut daffodils on the table opposite the Master. Without another word, he vanished inside his TARDIS. Cautiously, the Master reached out to pluck a daffodil of the top of the pile of flowers. He pinched the stem between his fingers and stroked the silky yellow petals fanning out from the orange corona. Vaguely recalling that humans sometimes enjoyed smelling plants, he slowly raised the flower to his nose and inhaled deeply.

Spluttering and coughing, the Master threw the daffodil back on the pile. He groped around in his breast pocket for a handkerchief and covered his nose with it as he erupted into a round of obnoxious sneezes. The Doctor reemerged from his TARDIS clutching a small pot with simple yet mesmerizing patterns imprinted on its sides. He set it on the table and shot the Master a mildly concerned glance as he scrubbed at his nose and refolded his handkerchief.

“This is an excellent Jomon specimen. I believe I was with Jamie when I found it,” the Doctor mused as he gathered the daffodils and began arranging them in the pot with precise movements. “Yes, that sounds right.” The Master rolled his eyes as the Doctor began to hum to himself and fluff the flowers. He poked at the Doctor’s dematerialization circuit, but begrudgingly conceded that as long as the Doctor was making such abhorrent noises, he wouldn’t be able to focus well at all.

Without warning, the Doctor slid his completed flower arrangement across the table until it was sitting directly under the Master’s nose. No doubt his thin lips were twisted into a doting — or, as the Master inevitably saw it, patronizing — grin, but as it happened the Master couldn't see him through the tears that had begun to gather in his eyes. He scrubbed at his nose in an annoyed attempt to rid it of the feeling that a feather had just been shoved up it. “I never knew you as one for sentimentality, my dear,” the Doctor harrumphed. After allowing the Master a few moments to emit choked sounds of befuddlement, he continued, “Well, of course these are for you. Perhaps they'll brighten the room a bit. You could have picked any flower to mass produce in plastic and usurp the Earth with, yet you settled on these. Humans have very interesting symbolic associations with the daffodil, you know —”

The Doctor gaped as the Master turned aside and buried his face in his handkerchief, beset by a sneeze that sounded remarkably like Bessie's horn. He rose on unsteady legs from his lab stool and stumbled away from the vase of flowers. With a long exhale, the Doctor reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Oh . . . oh, dear. You’ve only ever been around plastic ones, haven’t you? I’d thought you would have at least . . . Well, never mind that.” The Master scowled at him and cleared his throat.

The Doctor sighed. “On second thought, perhaps these will clash with the, er, atmosphere of our quarters. I’ll, ah — I’ll just set them outside the door.” He swept the vase off the table and did just that, shucking his pollen-covered jacket in the process and slinging it over a hook on the coat rack.

“Come along, old chap. I’ve got a stash of remedies for just this sort of thing in the TARDIS.” The Master waved his hand and opened his mouth to dismiss the Doctor’s assistance, but no sound passed his lips. “Hm?” the Doctor prompted. Gritting his teeth, the Master reluctantly stumbled after him into the ship.

Once the doors closed behind them, the Master took his first real breath in what felt like ages. The Doctor chuckled. “Yes, it’s quite a fine air purification system, isn’t it? A bit old, perhaps, but I’ve made a few adjustments over the years.” With a wink, he gestured for the Master to follow him into the depths of the TARDIS. The Master hummed, blanching when the noise caught and crackled in his throat.

__________

“Oh, don’t be so petulant. It’ll only be a few hours until you’re ‘right as rain,’ as they say. I’m surprised you’ve managed to stay awake this long; that medication should have at least made you drowsy by now. Flushing every possible allergen out of your system is no easy feat, you know.”

The Master glowered at the Doctor over the top of a thick blanket and casually adjusted himself in bed so his dematerialization circuit wasn’t digging into his side. Really, he thought, this was overdoing it. He hadn’t needed medicine — or rest, for that matter — and here he was, swaddled like a child in his temporary bedroom with the Doctor perched on a wing-backed chair at his side.

With a huff, the Doctor lowered the book in his hands and said, “Look, try to sleep, will you? You won’t be able to make any progress on those circuits until you do.”

“I’m freezing, Doctor.” The Master started at the raspiness of his voice. His hands fisted in the sheets in frustration. Why did everything with the Doctor have to be so difficult?

“You most certainly aren’t freezing. Perhaps you’re a bit chilly, is all. That's quite a common side effect of 31st century Plutonian remedies.”

The frown creasing the Master’s face deepened, and with an exaggerated sigh, the Doctor plonked his book down on the night table and shuffled to the other side of the bed. He slid under the covers and wrapped an arm around the Master, pulling him flush against his side. The Master’s squeak of surprise was lost in the frills of the Doctor’s shirt. He squirmed but found (to his annoyance, naturally) that doing so only resulted in him burrowing further into the downy mattress beneath him, relaxing him further. The fight drained from his suddenly heavy limbs.

“That’s it, old chap.” The stentorian rumble of the Doctor’s voice tickled the Master’s cheek where it rested against his chest. Slowly, the Master craned his neck back to fix the Doctor with a drowsy glare.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Body heat, my dear fell— what in Omega’s name is that?” Muttering about how disagreeable it was to have been poked in the side while settling down, the Doctor slipped his long fingers between them and into the Master’s pocket, fishing around a bit before holding up the half-fixed dematerialization circuit he'd removed. The Master gulped as the Doctor reached across him to set it next to his book and tensed when he felt the Doctor’s arms enclose him again in an embrace that, as it turned out, was rather pleasantly warm.

“I told you,” the Doctor murmured, threading a hand into his hair and scratching his scalp soothingly, “it isn’t necessary to hide that from me, whatever grand scheme it’s a part of. I know how painful it is to lose your freedom. You won’t listen, I’m sure, but the least you could do is try to understand, hm?”

Like a languid cat having its fur kneaded, the Master leaned into the Doctor’s touch. His eyes fluttered closed. He cracked one open when he felt the unmistakable pressure of the Doctor’s lips against the crown of his head, but he felt too pliant to protest. Instead, he waited until he felt the Doctor’s breath even out a bit and nuzzled into his collarbone, letting sleep creep ever closer.

Barely clinging to consciousness, the Master murmured, “You never did tell me what ‘interesting symbolic associations’ humans have with the daffodil.”

The Doctor’s chest rose in a deep inhale. “New beginnings, my dear. New beginnings,” he breathed, and the muscles in the arm he had draped across the Master relaxed fully, settling as a comforting weight on his old friend's upper body.

Though the Master’s eyes remained closed, his mind, suddenly electrified, churned relentlessly for a long while, staving off sleep until the Doctor’s allergen remedy distorted his thoughts into indecipherable kaleidoscopes that lulled him into a contented doze.


	9. A Dill-ightful Excursion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Brigadier sends the Doctor and the Master on an errand. Shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: food (but no eating).
> 
> Hello! This chapter mentions vegetables and spices. No one consumes anything. Please let me know if I ought to change anything in the tags and/or in the fic!

Out of habit more than anything, the Master hurriedly concealed his dematerialization circuit under the lab table when the Doctor burst through the door. A few bleak hours had passed at UNIT HQ since the Doctor had pulled the Master into his TARDIS, and the Master was rather fed up with himself for not having used that time to work even though he’d had little choice in the matter. Recalling the Doctor’s promise that he didn’t mind him working on his own circuit, the Master sheepishly continued tinkering with it. Still, the Doctor didn’t have an inkling about the first prong of his ingenious plan to hasten his escape — at least, the Master corrected himself, he didn't think he did.

“Ah, there you are,” the Doctor said cheerily.

With a gloomy frown tugging at the corners of his lips, the Master grumbled, “You left.” Indeed, when the Master’s eyes had fluttered open and he'd thrown his hands out in a languid stretch, he was left grasping at cold, empty sheets where he'd been snuggled up to the Doctor's side — for body heat, mind you, that medicine had given him great need of it — and he'd felt a good deal more crestfallen than he cared to admit.

The Master squinted. Was that guilt on the Doctor’s face? His long fingers fiddled with the frills of his cuffs and a small piece of paper he clutched in one hand. “Yes, well, I . . . I’m afraid the Brigadier was rather insistent on meeting with me this afternoon.”

The excuse did nothing to lighten the Master’s hearts. He grunted and returned his attention to a wayward strip of copper in his circuit. Only mild surprise crossed his face when the Doctor thrust the note he’d brought in under his nose. The Master took it warily.

“We’ve been given a unique task, despite my most adamant objections.” The Doctor mumbled something about practically being a prisoner of UNIT himself, what with the Brigadier ordering him about like a servile creature, but the Master paid him no mind. His eyes flicked over the list in front of him. In Lethbridge-Stewart’s precise writing, it read:

  * 2 kg potatoes
  * 4 onions
  * 3 large carrots
  * 1 small jar peppercorns



“K.G. potatoes,” the Master mused, “Hm. I haven’t encountered that variation before . . .”

With a scoff, the Doctor shifted his weight to lean against the table. “Kilograms, my dear fellow. A unit of measurement.”

“Yes, of course. I thought you liked a good joke, Doctor; I was merely catering to your absurd sense of humor.” The Master’s gaze was steely, but the bemused quirk in the otherwise firm set of his mouth betrayed his fib. “What does this mean, then?”

The Doctor sighed and scratched his head. “It means that UNIT stocks are low and those items need to be obtained for the staff dinner tomorrow evening. Come along, now.”

“What?” An earsplitting scrape of metal on tile accompanied the Master’s exclamation and his arm shot out behind him to steady his teetering lab stool.

Shooting him a pointed glance, the Doctor huffed, “My dear fellow, is it really so difficult to connect the dots? I’m being sent on an errand to pick the ingredients up. I mustn't let you out of my sight, so naturally, you have the privilege of coming with me.” And after throwing his cloak over his shoulders in a black and purple blur, the Doctor was gone. The Master was prepared to burst with objections, but he stopped choking on the insults he was churning out when he realized that he'd be able to get away from the dratted Brigadier and his officers — if only for a little while — if he followed the Doctor. Clutching the shopping list in his fist so tightly that the fibers in the paper nearly screeched for mercy, the Master marched after the Doctor.

__________

Though the weather was pleasant, the brief ride in Bessie felt unnaturally cold. The Master’s eardrums were raw after a quarter-hour of listening to the Doctor whistle; no theatrical sigh or thunderous throat-clearing gave the Doctor the hint the Master wanted him to get, so he settled for drumming on the seat out of time whenever the Doctor began a new song, which threw the Doctor off and irked him marvelously. Still, the Master's mood hadn’t taken a turn for the better by the time they ducked into a small shop with a colorless awning above the door.

The Doctor homed in on the potatoes as soon as he crossed the threshold. He poked at the spuds with clear confusion before picking a few up and examining them closely. With a shrug, he tossed a handful into the cloth bag draped across his arm. “Why don’t you fetch the carrots, old chap? That way we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Wordlessly, the Master shuffled to the back of the tiny store, leaving the Doctor to puzzle over the different colors of onions for sale. “Here,” he grunted as the Doctor plopped a rainbow variety of onions into the bag, then held it out to him.

Just as the Master reached to put the carrots in the bag, the Doctor yanked it back. “Now, wait just a moment. Did you intentionally pick the least appealing specimens in this establishment?”

The Master snorted. “They’re going to be chopped up, most likely! What does it matter if they look nice?” When the Doctor looked nonplussed, the Master waved his hand (still full of knobbly carrots) dismissively and added, “Besides, these primitives have such a deeply ingrained fixation with the appearance of their root vegetables that they’ll willingly leave perfectly adequate ones like these to rot. You see, Doctor, we’re showing them —”

“Our superiority?"

“Well," the Master drug out the word with a smirk, "one can certainly look at it that way. I'm glad to see you're acknowledging such a valuable take on the matter.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes, prompting the Master to change his approach. If he was sent to fetch the most aesthetically appealing carrots, they'd be in that confounded store well into the evening. He didn't think he could stand that. “However, we’re also showing them how they can stop wasting their already pitiful food supply! Even you can’t refute the honor inherent in that endeavor, my dear.”

It would’ve been difficult for anyone not intimately acquainted with the Doctor to catch the quick upward quirk at the corner of his mouth. Fortunately, the Master wasn’t lacking in experience with him, though he couldn’t quite tell whether that hint of a smile was a result of the Doctor’s preoccupation with being a shining example of morality and propriety or the (false, certainly false) assumption that underneath the Master's hard shell was a soft, fuzzy interior and two hearts far too large for his chest cavity. He held out the lumpy carrots. This time, the Doctor didn’t pull the bag out from under his cargo. The carrots thunked against the potatoes and onions at the bottom of the sack.

“Now for the spices,” the Doctor grinned.

__________

“Er . . . what is it the list calls for?

“Peppercorns. A small jar of peppercorns.”

The Doctor and the Master squinted at the minuscule print on the neat rows of jars in front of them. They quickly abandoned their quest for any sort of rhyme or reason to the organization of the spices — alphabetical order, all variations of color arrangements, isopsephy — and divided the territory they needed to cover, each scouring their respective sector of the spice rack for peppercorns.

The Doctor shifted the bag of vegetables on his arm and passed a hand over his eyes, suddenly wishing he’d gotten more sleep earlier. He squinted at the spice jars but flicked his gaze over their labels in a manner far more casual than his intense gaze suggested. Returning to UNIT meant returning to dull normalcy; the longer the Doctor could postpone that the better. A glance at the Master confirmed that he seemed to be of the same mind, as he was only idly perusing the shelf.

With a sudden mischievous twinkle in his eye, the Doctor plucked a jar of thyme off the shelf and concealed it behind his back. “You know,” he murmured, leaning close to the Master, who recoiled at the sensation of the Doctor’s breath ghosting across his ear, “I made a point of visiting my favorite Earth authors at one point.”

It would have been a physical marvel if the Master could’ve pressed his lips into a thinner line. “Did you, now?” he grumbled, seeming to read the spice jar labels a bit more diligently.

“Yes. I pride myself on having gotten to know a few of them reasonably well.”

“Hm.”

The Doctor fingered the thyme behind his back and continued, “I was quite close with Charles Dickens. Do you know what he always kept in his spice rack?”

The abrupt appearance of an object in front of one’s face is quite a shocking experience, as the Master soon discovered. He reeled backward, blinking at the jar of thyme looming large in his field of vision. He followed the Doctor’s long, slender fingers wrapped around it up his arm to his face, which was split by a cheeky grin. Despite the shock of having a glass receptacle filled with dried herbs thrust in front of him, nothing could have prepared the Master for what the Doctor said next: “The best of thymes, the worst of thymes.”

“That,” the Master groaned, “was an awfully lengthy introduction for a meager pun.”

“Ah, but it was irresistible.”

“Was it?”

“Mm.” The Doctor slipped the thyme back into its rightful place on the shelf as the Master turned away, mumbling curses under his breath.

“Well, I thought it was a frivolous waste of time.” A beat passed before the Master realized his mistake. Unfortunately for him, the Doctor caught it.

“Of thyme, you mean?”

Two could play at that game. With a growl, the Master snatched a jar off the row at his eye-level. He held up brightly colored curry powder where the Doctor could clearly see it and declared, “If you insist on public buffoonery, Doctor, you can just as well curry on without me.”

The Doctor snorted. “Oh, I’d hate for you to leaf.” The Master rolled his eyes at the bay leaves the Doctor had picked out and scanned the shelf for salt.

“I hardly think you’d take my absence as an in-salt, my dear.”

That time around, the Master couldn’t stop a smile from lighting up his face as he watched the Doctor chuckle. They both knew that one had been a bit of a stretch, but neither particularly cared. The Master’s hearts skipped a beat when the Doctor’s eyes met his, glittering with genuine delight.

Then, “Aha!” and the preciousness of the moment passed. The Doctor shook a small jar of peppercorns, letting the tiny dark spheres rattle against the glass, and shoved it in the shopping bag.

__________

“Now, that wasn’t such a big dill, was it?”

The Master scoffed, stifling a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth as he marched alongside the Doctor down the pristine corridors of UNIT HQ. “I’ve had quite enough of your infernal puns, Doctor.”

“Sorry, old chap, I never mint to irk you.”

“Well, I’d much prefer it if you'd herb your enthusiasm.”

With a hint of a grin, the Doctor rapped on the door with the plaque reading “Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart” in neat lettering.

The Brigadier registered only two complaints about the purchases they’d made: 1) the onions were of no single variety, and 2) they’d managed to pick out the most grotesque and unappealing carrots in all Britannia.


End file.
